Battle Royal by Lucy Parker

Chapter Eleven

Sugar Fair

Currently in Mourning

RIP the victims of the Great Gingerbread Witch Massacre.

Sylvie tried notto flinch as the entire trolley of gingerbread witches crashed to the ground. Broken biscuits skittered across the newly cleaned floors. A decapitated witch head landed on the tip of her shoe. They decorated these as good witches, with correspondingly friendly expressions, but the fall had knocked this one’s face askew and she peered up with gleaming malevolence.

Considering that the rest of her body was six feet away under the truffle fridge, she was entitled to be a little peeved.

Mabel pushed through the kitchen door, took one look at the mess on the floor, shot Sylvie a very pointed stare, and turned straight back the way she’d come.

Sylvie lifted her head to meet the wide-eyed, naïve gaze of Penny.

Even as she opened her mouth, the intern’s gray eyes started to fill.

Oh no.

“It was an accident,” she said hastily, but it was too late. The meltdown commenced.

“I’m hopeless!” Penny wailed, flinging herself down onto a stool and scrubbing her hands over her face. She was still wearing her gloves, so green icing smeared all over her cheeks.

With a massive internal sigh, Sylvie stripped off her own gloves and went to pat her on the back.

“It was like sad Elphaba,” she said a quarter of an hour later, knocking back coffee in the office. “Tears streaking down her green face. Have you seen her when she’s crying? She has Disney eyes at the best of times. The slightest upset and she goes full-on Bambi.”

Jay was leaning against the filing cabinet, arms folded.

Before he could say the words obviously scrambling toward his tongue, she set down her mug. “Don’t say it. I can’t fire her over a dropped tray of biscuits.”

Jay tossed down the papers he was holding. “It was an entire trolley of biscuits, and this is only one more catastrophe in an endless stream of incompetence.”

She was tired and on uncertain ground about a lot of things right now, and she was really not in the mood to argue about this again. And it was admittedly becoming frustrating that however hard she tried with Penny, whatever angle she took, it netted no positive results at all. “I know you think I need to be tougher in this part of the business.”

Jay seemed about to respond, probably in the emphatic affirmative, but when he took a closer look at her face, he sighed and came to sit on the edge of the desk. “Look, when it comes down to it, you can’t be anything other than what you are. And nor should you be. You’re almost entirely the reason this business is successful at all.”

His eyes were very warm and affectionate on her, and she reached up to squeeze his hand. “The business is both of us. We built it together, and I couldn’t do it without you.”

Letting her fingers drop, she sat up straighter with a sigh. “I think—I know—I’ve probably been a bit . . . softer on Penny because of her family situation.”

“Her family situation?” Jay reached for the bowl of mints on her desk and unwrapped one, slipping it into his mouth.

“Not having living family anymore. Like me.” It had been something of a bonding moment during Penny’s interview, after the other woman’s nervous small talk had veered into the area of Sylvie’s private life. There had been several candidates with roughly equal qualifications that day; if she were honest, it was Penny’s similar circumstances that had sealed the deal on the job offer. However, as soon as the words were out, Sylvie quickly touched Jay’s knee. “Biological family. I know I still have a family.”

Something in his expression deepened, then. She couldn’t quite read it. And when he spoke, after a noticeable pause, his voice was gruff. “You and I will always be family, Syl.”

Adamant. Obviously sincere.

Yet something in the air was raising a tickling sensation down the back of her neck. Only a couple of times in her life, the most notable instance in the hours before Mallory’s death, Sylvie had experienced that creeping sense of foreboding.

Jay pushed back a falling strand of his dark hair. His muscular chest moved with a long in-drawn breath. “Sylvie,” he said, and although their eyes met, she still couldn’t get a grip on what he was feeling, at all. “Can we talk? Not now. I know you have this meeting with the Albany team. But later. Soon.”

“Yes. Of course we can.” She tapped the tip of her shoe against the chair leg. “Is something wrong?”

“I . . . hope not wrong. No.” He exhaled, some of the stiffness leaving his frame as he smiled at her. “Don’t look so worried. It’s very un-Sylvie. I’m meant to be the family pessimist.”

She smiled back, but that hard, tight feeling remained.

Jay had been a rock in her life for a long time, so why did she feel like that foundation stone had just wobbled?

He stroked her head as he straightened. “I have to go, too. Meeting with that supplier who’s gone rogue.” After grabbing another mint, he headed for the door, but suddenly turned back. “By the way, why did you think Penny doesn’t have family? I heard her talking to her mother on the phone recently.”

She looked up from where she’d been frowning at the desk. “I don’t think so. She definitely said at her interview she doesn’t have family.”

He made a noncommittal gesture. “Maybe I got it wrong.” He touched a finger to his temple in a glancing salute. “See you later. Good luck with the princess’s pompous PA.”

It was a relief to fall back on irony. “Darren Clyde would like to inform you that the title of Asshat Alliterator is already filled.”

Which reminded her that she needed one more unenthusiastic trip to the Starlight Circus. She was missing one ingredient in the Midnight Elixir, the linking note that brought everything else together. It was suitably elusive, slipping away into the darkness every time she thought she had it.

Jay’s low laugh followed her as she grabbed her coat and went out the back door into the side alleyway. It was freezing outside, and she pulled her woolly gloves from her coat pocket as she walked.

Freezing, but busy. After almost five minutes of waiting for a break in the traffic, and a quick selfie with a passing Operation Cake fan, she managed to cross the road safely, and stood looking at the classy frontage of the love of Dominic’s life.

Even with the constant gray drizzle of rain, his windows were perfectly polished under their awnings and the gold fittings gleamed.

With a small smile, she pushed open the door. Immediately, a rush of warm, delicious air hit her in the face—the most welcome knockout blow she could imagine. She breathed deep. Interesting how two businesses with similar wares could smell so distinct. Sugar Fair was caramel, candyfloss, popcorn. De Vere’s was dark chocolate and bourbon—deep, indulgent, sensual.

The front rooms of the salon were beautiful and not her personal taste at all. White walls with just the smallest hint of mint, oak accents, and a general vibe of Paris. The expensive end.

A kind-eyed assistant smiled at her from behind a massive glass cabinet of chocolates. “Welcome to De Vere’s. May I help you find something?”

“Bring forth the siege engines. The enemy walks amongst us.”

At the dramatic pronouncement, Sylvie turned, startled—and grinned. Pet De Vere was sitting on the window seat, perched amongst the cushions with an open laptop on her knee.

Pet winked at her. “Just straight through the front door. No army. No unicorn bombs. Not even a concealing cloak. Bold. Very bold.”

Still smiling, Sylvie walked over and leaned against a wooden beam that was crying out for some fairy lights. “You look busy.”

Pet picked up the hot chocolate at her side and took a sip, looking as if she were bracing herself to continue an unpleasant task. “Job-hunting. Always a blast.”

“He hasn’t given you the sack?”

“Amazingly, not yet.” Pet waved a hand at her laptop screen. “But it’s only a fixed-term contract, until his permanent assistant can come back.” She lifted a shoulder in an incredibly Dominic-esque gesture. “And at some point, I need to find my own place, you know? In the world, I mean,” she added, in a way that could have come across naïvely, but didn’t.

“I do know,” Sylvie said quietly. She tilted her head at the laptop. “If I hear of anything—”

“Thanks. I’ll know the right thing when it comes along.” Pet set the computer aside and stood, smoothing down her top and skirt. Her silk blouse was neatly pressed and tied in a jaunty pussy bow under her chin. “I’m guessing you want Dominic?”

There was a slightly wicked glint in her eyes, but Sylvie worked on a daily basis with Mabel. It was a far higher bar than that to discompose her with subtextual innuendo. “We have a meeting, and I thought we might as well share a ride.”

Now that the cat was out of the bag between them regarding the Albany tender—and as they were currently colleagues on set—the palace had directed one big cozy Super-Secret Cake Meeting. Bit of a switch-up from last time, but it saved everyone some time and subterfuge, she supposed.

Pet shot a quick glance around and leaned close. “The atmosphere suddenly went very sly. Is this a meeting regarding a certain commission, or is ‘meeting’ a complete euphemism, in which case, I’d like to put up a hand and say I both highly endorse this and also don’t want to know any details, ever.”

It took a second to untangle that stream of words. The genetics gods had clearly forgotten to give any garrulous genes to Dominic and stuffed a few extra into Pet instead.

“The former,” Sylvie said emphatically, eyeing her.

A rear door opened, and she sensed Dominic seconds before he appeared. Like a personal Bat-Signal. He was wearing a navy peacoat, strands of silver at his temples glinted under the lights, and her stomach did a dizzy little flip-flop.

All the surrealness and confliction aside, she’d forgotten how—fun it was, to feel that little leap of excitement, just from someone walking into a room.

When he saw her standing with Pet, his dark gaze moved slowly between them before coming to rest on her. “Hello.”

Typically guarded, but she could have sworn that a little inner light appeared in his eyes when he looked at her. As it had multiple times overnight, the sight and sound of his laughter yesterday returned to her mind.

Obviously, Dominic was handsome. He’d lucked out genetically where his face was concerned. But when he had laughed, properly laughed, for the first time ever in her presence, he’d made her want to draw in close in every way. Physically, sexually, emotionally.

As she’d said. Knee-weakening.

“Hi.” She unnecessarily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I just need to stick these in the office.” Holding up a couple of files. “And we can go.” He shot a glance at the Baroque clock near the counter. “That’s running fast again, but traffic’s horrific today, so we shouldn’t cut it too fine—”

“I can do that,” Pet said at once, snatching the files from him. “You get going.”

“I haven’t signed them yet—”

She was already gone.

“Well, she’s efficient,” Sylvie offered.

“That’s one word for it. Come on back. It won’t take a minute.”

With avid interest, she followed him back into the inner sanctum. She’d never been farther than the kitchens of De Vere’s. Unsurprisingly, even their back rooms were decorated in polar-opposite styles.

Dominic’s office was spacious, highly equipped with tech, and surprisingly messy. She was envious of the large plushy couch. She only had space in her own office for her desk chair. On the rare occasions she had time for a breather—or tiny nap—she usually lay on the floor in the Dark Forest and looked up at the fairy lights in the trees.

As she stood near the door, he signed his papers, and Pet hovered by the desk, chewing on her lip. When Sylvie had first spoken to her out front, she’d been sparkly, confident, teasing.

In here, in the quiet, it was much more apparent how Pet and Dominic changed around each other. The vibe became wary. Not at all combative—quite the opposite. Trying, but battle-wounded. She knew he wanted to connect with Pet, but it was crystal clear how badly Pet, too, wanted that bond back.

She spoke instinctively. “We’re allowed to involve our most trusted inner circle in the final bids for this contract. Why doesn’t Pet come to the meeting today as part of yours?”

Pet’s head jerked around, and Dominic looked up from the document he was signing.

Neither said a word. Sylvie realized how presumptuous the suggestion was. She still didn’t regret making it. “I’m sure she has good insight for your team.”

Pet’s eyes darted to her brother.

Dominic raised his brows. “How altruistic of you to give the competition any advantage.”

Sylvie smiled at him. “Wasn’t it?” Then, ever so slightly, she inclined her head toward Pet, who was still standing silently. The younger woman was starting to twist her fingers around her pen.

Dominic put down his own pen. “You do have good instincts, Pet, and you’re an excellent judge of character. If you could spare an hour or two and come to the meeting, I’d appreciate it.”

Her lips parted and moved silently, before an actual word emerged. “Okay.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She hesitated a few seconds longer, and then seemed to reanimate as if she’d come off a battery charge. “I’ll just get my coat!”

The door slammed behind her, and the walls of that large, spacious room seemed to close in. Sylvie was very aware of the rhythm and sound of her own breathing.

“I should have involved her myself.” Dominic’s voice was low and deep. “Thank you.”

“She just wants time with you. To be part of your life.” She finally looked up. He was watching her very intently. “I . . .” She sought for something to say. “Um. I checked the public records for a Jessica Maple-Moore in the region of Oxford and I found her death certificate. She died almost twenty-seven years ago, of catastrophic injury. By the measure of Patrick’s age, that can’t have been all that long after the photograph was taken at Primrose Cottage.” She hesitated again. “I thought about it, and I think after the meeting with her team today, we should try to contact Rosie directly and see if the name means anything to her. I can’t shake the feeling that this is the key to—well, to understanding Patrick.”

Even outside of the cake, setting aside the contract, she was drawn to that photograph in a way she couldn’t understand. Maybe it was the look in Patrick’s eyes, or the pure joy in Jessica’s face, the sense of two souls intimately connected.

Or maybe it was pure nosiness. Either way, she felt compelled to follow the path a little further.

“Okay,” Dominic repeated simply, still quietly.

Her absurdly nervous gaze suddenly stopped skating around and returned to an object she’d just skimmed on his desk. It was a framed photograph, an old-fashioned shot of a youngish Sebastian De Vere standing outside De Vere’s in an earlier decade. At any other time, she’d be fascinated to see again how handsome he’d been—and how much his grandson resembled him. But it wasn’t the photograph that caught her attention. It was what was tucked into the frame.

Dominic’s eyes followed hers. And a tinge of color appeared in his cheeks.

Walking over, the butterflies skittering about her stomach, Sylvie reached out and touched the intricate little silhouette portrait of her own face. Her eyes lifted to Dominic’s in-the-flesh face, which was currently much stiffer than that paper.

“Pet,” he said. “She cut a couple of portraits in here one day when we were talking about Operation Cake. Yours and Mariana’s.”

“Yes. I saw Mariana’s after you gave it to her.” She ran her finger around the paper contour of her plait, dropped her hand to the desk. “You didn’t give me mine, though.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Because . . . we didn’t get along? And you wanted to keep Pet’s artwork?”

“I did want to have some of Pet’s art.” Dominic’s jaw ticked. “And somewhere along the line, I wanted that one in particular.”

Sylvie swallowed.

When he walked forward and slowly reached for her, sliding his hands around the curve of her waist, she touched his jaw almost wonderingly, feeling that increasingly familiar prickle of stubble. The softness of his lips when she ran her fingers over them, before his head lowered the short distance to hers.

The coming together was quiet and searching, but as soon as their mouths met, the kiss was hard, urgent. He pulled her up into his body, and Sylvie wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tightly as they pressed closer to each other. His hand stroked up her ribs, his thumb lightly tracing the undercurve of her breast.

Little whispers of kisses on each corner of her mouth and the tip of her nose, before he roughly caught her lips again, pushing deep, a shivering rush of awareness that echoed in her heart.

If she’d rubbed a magic lamp and wished for the most head-spinning, gorgeous kiss, even a genie would struggle to top this.

Dominic’s fingers slid into her hair, cupping her neck, and his teeth closed on her lower lip.

“Oops,” Pet said from somewhere in the mists beyond Sylvie’s immediate consciousness.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked into Dominic’s darkened eyes. His hand tightened on her and he tore his gaze from hers, turning his head.

“Um. I’ll just wait at the car.”

Sylvie finally clued properly into Pet’s presence. She was standing at the door, clutching its edge, and looking equal parts thrilled and squicked-out.

She flitted away again, and Sylvie’s hand curled against the front of Dominic’s shirt, feeling the movement of his chest.

“That was—” Her voice was a crackly mess.

“It was.” Low and velvety, just one simple statement that made her shiver again. He ran the edge of his thumb down her nose. Touching her with an ease that would mean so much less from someone else. “Rain check?”

She nodded, and their fingers brushed, briefly interlocked.

As they left the office, Dominic rang ahead to the contact number they’d been given, to warn of an extra visitor.

Sylvie sat in the back of the car during the long, traffic-stalled trip to the mystery office building, partly so Pet could talk to Dominic. Partly because she had a mind all over the place right now—and frankly, enough sexual frustration that she felt awkward even sitting in the same car as his little sister.

Pet seemed to have gone unnaturally silent, however, and after about ten minutes, Dominic turned on the radio, which Sylvie doubted got much airtime in this vehicle.

A song finished, and the DJs filled the car with boring chat about a movie she’d never heard of. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched a film. Life at the moment revolved mostly around cake, with snatches of sleep when possible.

She looked at the back of Dominic’s head, his forearm resting on the steering wheel.

Although one or two other things were starting to take precedence.

The inane chatter suddenly turned to the royal wedding.

“They’re putting the whole thing on telly, so I hope the groom can get his vows out by dinnertime,” one of the shock jocks cracked.

Sylvie shook her head with a low sound of disgust.

“Sounds like Marchmont is still boffing his ex. The Eton set usually wait until after the wedding before they hook up a bit on the side . . .”

Emphatically, Dominic reached out and switched the radio off.

In the renewed quiet, Pet said, “These stories popping up about John Marchmont. It’s bullshit, surely?”

“It’s definitely bullshit.” Sylvie had no doubts whatsoever on that score. “He loves Rosie. I’ve met a lot of engaged couples in this business, and I’ve rarely seen a couple with such a strong, private connection.”

She expected a cynical rejoinder from Dominic at that, but he surprised her. “I agree. The connection between them seemed genuine.”

He changed lanes, turning into a quieter street. This was a part of London Sylvie rarely visited, mostly expensive commercial zones. Very old and exclusive-looking properties converted into office and loft space.

When Dominic had found a parking space, they stood looking at a heavily fenced Georgian property.

“And the battle resumes,” Dominic murmured.

“Hmm.” Sylvie started forward. “Countdown until the final proposals is on. I’d start preparing your gracious concession speech now.”

“Oh no,” she heard Pet say behind her, with a perfect blend of condescension and sympathy. “Does she really think they have a chance?”

Without turning around, Sylvie lifted her hand, made a very unsporting gesture, and heard Pet’s laughter ring out.

Dominic snorted softly.

Fortunately, none of the intimidating guards at the entrance had seen that lapse of professionalism. They were all too occupied with the woman having an almighty tantrum on the steps.

“I’m sorry, miss,” a grim-looking man in black said, stepping to block another attempt by the curly-haired blonde to get past him. “Entrance is by appointment only. And you’re not on our list.”

“I know they’re in there,” she snapped. She was probably quite pretty, but right now her face was red and screwed up with fury. She stamped her foot like a stymied toddler. “And I demand to see Johnny. I’ll even talk to her if he’s supposedly so ‘busy.’”

A woman in similarly funereal attire said something into her phone, which provoked a renewed screech of outrage.

“I need to see him. And who are you?” In a momentary break from her wild gesticulating, she’d caught sight of Sylvie and Pet, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps. “More of his discards?”

She suddenly made a break for the doors and was scooped up by the biggest of the guards. He tucked her under his arm like a football and calmly walked past them and out of sight. Flailing arms and legs and a stream of profanity exited with him.

Pet ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the sleekly straightened bob. “That was a bit . . .”

Disquieting. Sylvie totally agreed. She suspected any premises with a celebrity connection, royal or otherwise, copped their share of unhealthy attention, but there had been something about the look in that woman’s eyes.

Dominic’s words came back to her—I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at someone and seen pure, undiluted hatred seeping out.

His hand touched her back. “Hazard of being in the public eye, especially in this day and age, when tech creates an illusion—or delusion—of intimacy. I think the source of the Don Juan rumors might have just revealed herself at some volume.”

“You don’t think that’s really John Marchmont’s ex?” Pet shot a disbelieving glance back. “It would be like a rabbit shagging a wolverine.”

“Thank you for that image.” Dominic pulled out his credentials to give to the waiting guard. “And no, I imagine that was a woman who’s never met Marchmont in her life, and probably needs a bit of help and compassion.”

Pet bit her lip.

Sylvie also produced her ID and checked in, and a guard escorted them inside. The foyer was expectedly plush, with a marble floor and a crystal chandelier. A gold-printed board stood next to a glass elevator, but there were no names, simply suite numbers.

She checked her notes. “Suite 4B?”

“That’s what I have.” Dominic reached out and hit the button, and the doors slid open.

When the lift reached the fourth floor, Edward Lancier was waiting for them. “Ms. Fairchild. Mr. De Vere. And I received a very last-minute request to approve a third party.” He’d couldn’t have sounded more put-upon if they’d asked him to personally escort Pet to the meeting, having first fetched her from the peaks of Everest.

“My sister, Petunia De Vere. She’s part of my team,” Dominic said briefly, and some of the pensiveness in Pet’s face was replaced with shy pleasure.

Edward turned smartly, knocked on a door, and held it open.

Dominic stood back and nodded Sylvie and Pet forward. She stepped into the room.

She’d been expecting a short and impersonal progress meeting with staff.

She had not been expecting to find the royal couple themselves, lounging about with takeaway cups from the Starlight Circus and an open bag of crisps.

“Good afternoon,” Rosie said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming, team. Teams.”

Johnny, who was wearing jeans and a Bastille tee, also stood and looked expectantly at Pet.

Rosie politely thanked and unceremoniously booted Edward from the room, and Dominic introduced his sister. Pet had gone uncharacteristically quiet.

“I like Bastille” was all she said before turning bright red.

Johnny immediately beamed at her. Sylvie could almost see the cartoon thought bubble above his head: A friend!

Rosie was dressed more formally than her fiancé, in a high-necked black lace dress. A leather blazer was slung over a nearby chair. Her sharp navy eyes performed a rapid assessment of Pet before switching to Sylvie and Dominic. “You were expecting to meet with Edward today.”

“Yes, we were.” Dominic’s response was equally blunt. The princess nodded for them to sit down. “I wouldn’t have thought your schedule would allow time for further meetings in person until we’re actually contracted and ready to move forward with the final cake.”

“Sadly misguided with the ‘we’re’ there, De Vere,” Sylvie murmured. “But otherwise—ditto.”

“There are some further last-minute elements we’d like included in the cake tenders . . .” Rosie correctly interpreted Sylvie’s expression and cracked a small grin. “Nothing complicated, I assure you. But I’d like to be sure that our requests are relayed . . . correctly.”

That pronouncement echoed into a short, expressive pause, broken by Johnny’s interjection.

“Lancier knows the ropes at the palace,” he said flatly. “But his appointment as her right-hand man was not Rosie’s choice. He used to work for a different branch of the household, and his loyalties remain firmly in that camp. She can’t sneeze in the night without Lancier sending a report up the family tree. Her relatives like to passive-aggressively meddle. They don’t like the increased spotlight on us since the announcement of the engagement, and that we draw m-more than our allotted share of attention. Somehow any ideas we shoot down the pipeline emerge looking very different to what we intended.”

The silence extended.

Rosie’s gaze slid sideways, and Johnny looked fondly back at her.

She cleared her throat. Patted his arm. “First order of business. On Sunday, a ball will be held at St. Giles to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday.”

“Happy birthday!” Pet blurted, and Rosie’s smile became more genuine.

“Thank you. My actual birthday was last month, but . . .” She shrugged. “Networking.”

That visible unbending was enough to unplug Pet’s nervous chattiness. “I hope you celebrated privately, too.”

Sylvie had been watching Johnny. Whenever his face fell into lines of repose, she thought there was a certain strain there, a tension far weightier than his nerves and awkward shuffling at their first meeting. But at Pet’s words, a twinkle appeared. “There may have been an all-night gaming tournament. And a very p-poor showing by the birthday girl.”

“It was four to three. In my favor,” Rosie retorted, and her fiancé reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips in a natural, affectionate gesture.

“I threw the last round as a gift. Gentleman’s code.”

“Nice try, babe.”

Pet looked absolutely fascinated.

Rosie cast a final laughing glance at Johnny—but Sylvie thought there was still underlying tension in her own demeanor, as well. “The final cake tenders are due on Sunday. I’d like to invite you both . . .” She looked at Pet, and her expression settled into something gentler. Kind. “I’d like to invite you all to attend the ball as our guests after you submit, including your business partner, Sylvie. Regardless of the outcome, your hard work is enormously appreciated.”

Sylvie was completely taken aback, and surprised that Pet wasn’t shooting about the room like an out-of-control firecracker. She was almost vibrating in her seat.

Dominic was clearly not as enamored as his sister by the prospect of a black-tie ball in a royal palace, but when he saw her excitement, the habitually hard edges of his expression softened.

Sylvie could very easily imagine what Pet had been like as a little girl, and suddenly she saw them in her mind’s eye—an emotionally battered, stoic small boy, clutching the baby girl who loved him, clambering onto that train.

She blinked away the burning in her eyes when Dominic looked at her with a small frown.

“Attendance obviously isn’t mandatory,” Rosie added. “A ball is not everyone’s idea of a delightful Sunday evening.”

Johnny managed not to pop up like a disastrously honest jack-in-the-box again, but the unspoken It’s not ours, either hung in the air.

Rosie dutifully pushed on. “With regard to the wedding cake, how difficult would it be to add an additional two tiers?”

She’d done a sketch of the changes they wanted, and Sylvie took a photograph of the drawing for later reference.

“This is a beautiful building,” Pet said suddenly. “Is it a permanent base for business? Or just a one-off hire for today?”

“For a number of reasons, we prefer to run some of our engagements outside of the palace.” Rosie was seemingly unbothered by the rapid-fire questions. “We keep an external suite of offices here, although we don’t advertise that fact.”

There was a very slight, very polite warning in those words, which Pet immediately discarded. “It can’t be that secret,” she said, so bluntly that her resemblance to her brother was momentarily marked. “Somebody was trying to get in to see you downstairs, and she obviously wasn’t invited.”

Rosie frowned. “Probably a member of the press,” she said, with an ironic twist on the last word. “If she may be so called. We have a reciprocal agreement with the media, but one of the tabloid papers in particular respects very few boundaries, and their photographers have been increasingly invasive.”

“Yes, my staff have had to shoo a few out of Sugar Fair.” Sylvie clicked off her pen. “But I don’t think your visitor today was a reporter. She was quite insistent about speaking to Johnny, and she was rather . . . cross,” she finished inadequately.

Flicking over a new page in her notebook, she looked up and caught the looks on the couple’s faces. In Rosie’s expression, she saw nothing but faint irritation, no obvious concern or suspicion.

Johnny, however—just for a second, something flickered. Alarm? Guilt?

Interesting. Worrying.

“That’s why we have security.” Rosie dismissed the subject and clasped her hands together. “We do want a quick word with you separately. We don’t expect you to divulge your secrets in front of each other.” The princess started scrolling through pages on her tablet. “But with regard to the design honorific to Uncle Patrick . . .” She saw their mutually raised eyebrows. “I’m afraid that surprise lasted about half an hour.”

Johnny pinkened. Whatever Sylvie had just seen in his face had gone, vanquished by a rush of self-deprecation. “When I’m excited about anything, my first instinct is to tell Rosie. She’s my best friend.”

Pet had heart-eyes again.

“It was a really lovely thought,” Rosie said, her gaze lingering and gentle on Johnny. “I miss him a lot.” Her smile twisted as she turned back to Sylvie. “Patrick—he genuinely cared about other people. He was interested in their lives. Truly happy when things went well for them. Just . . .” She made a little gesture with her hand.

“A good man,” Dominic said.

“Yes.” Rosie glanced at her lap, then drew in a deep breath. When she straightened her shoulders, getting back to business, the professional demeanor slipped back over her like a veil. It was like a holographic image—turn the picture one way and see the royal trappings, the well-trained princess; tip the image and catch a glimpse of the normal human woman. “As I was saying, with regard to that element of the design, I’m aware it’s quite a difficult brief. I was closer to Patrick than probably anyone else in the world . . .”

Another break in the trained exterior; her face was fleetingly stark. Bleak. Then it was gone. “I have no idea what to suggest for the design. Patrick was an intensely private man, and for as long as I knew him, he was primarily focused on his charities. And his music. But unfortunately, you can’t put his piano sonatas on a cake. Nor do I want a sugar facsimile of his pet bees.” A wry postscript. “Short of straight-out writing his name on a tier, which would go down like a bucket of cold sick with my grandfather,” Rosie added with graphic bluntness, “I can’t provide much help. But it occurred to Johnny that you might want access to the private records at Abbey Hall . . .” Closely observing their faces, her shrewd eyes narrowed. “You’ve already been there.”

“We both have, yes,” Sylvie said, and exchanged rapid glances with Dominic. Ask about Jessica Maple-Moore now, or when they split groups shortly and someone could speak to Rosie privately? She was inclined toward the latter and Dominic clearly agreed. He raised his hand to push back a strand of that lush silvering hair—and made a tiny gesture with his forefinger and middle finger. It was Operation Cake language, a smattering of hand signals that the crew used to communicate while the cameras were rolling. In this case: Wait. A full dialogue in a matter of seconds, without saying a word. She inclined her head. “It opened possibilities.”

Rosie lifted her brows. “Impressive.” She picked up her Starlight Circus cup. “And how about progress on the Midnight Elixir layer? Does it also advance?”

It advanced straight into the bin. Layer upon disgusting layer.

“I don’t know about De Vere’s,” Sylvie said primly. “But we’re very close.” Dominic cleared his throat at that, and she lifted her chin. “Very close.”

Johnny took a sip from his own cup. “God, it actually is ghastly.”

The end of Dominic’s tapping pen hit his paper hard, and Sylvie looked up from her own notes. Having put money into Darren Clyde’s cash register, and the world’s most revolting cake onto her poor, abused taste buds, she couldn’t even begin to hide her expression.

Belatedly, Johnny explained, “My assistant picked up the wrong drink today. I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Yet, he kept drinking it, looking perfectly happy to do so.

“Johnny’s assistant is leaving after the wedding,” Rosie explained, probably to smooth over their unblinking silence. “He’s getting married himself. Naturally, he’s become a little distracted. But I’m pleased to hear you’re so close to translating the flavor.”

They split up, then, Dominic and Pet going into an adjacent room with Johnny. Sylvie answered a few of Rosie’s questions about her progress and asked for clarification on several points. She was probing into which flavor notes of the Midnight Elixir the couple most enjoyed when she realized that Rosie was answering on autopilot. Very polite, very practiced, but very definitely worried.

If she saw anyone upset or stressed, Sylvie asked if they needed help. She was quite sure it wasn’t in the etiquette books to ask a princess what was up; nor would it be protocol to receive a truthful response. Nevertheless . . . “Your Highness. Are you all right?”

Rosie didn’t stiffen or startle. She looked up smoothly, her face serene. Sylvie fully expected an immaculate brush-off.

The other woman’s eyeliner was smudged, just a tiny bit, at one corner. Those large eyes searched Sylvie’s face. And she spoke. And it was neither a brush-off nor a social lie. “I don’t take for granted the privileges of my birth. They are many and legion. In many ways, I’m one of the most fortunate women in this country.”

Sylvie said nothing.

“There is a flip side to those advantages.” Rosie paused. “I’m sure you can understand that it’s rather difficult to know whom one can confide in, at times.”

“I can very much imagine that would be the case.” Especially if Rosie’s senior staff were spying on her every move and reporting any small misstep to her relatives and their staff. It would be like living in a game of Minesweeper, constantly trying not to step on the bombs.

“I learned, the hard way, to make swift judgments as to character,” Rosie said crisply. “And instinctively, right from the beginning, I’ve trusted you. You could have sold the story of my behavior in Sugar Fair that night to the gutter press. You didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Not everyone in my family is happy. With me, with my engagement. Or in general.” She briefly pressed her lips together. “I’m not sure what I would do without Johnny at my side. Through all the pressure, all the press, all the . . . dissent, he’s been there. He’s on my team, all the time. Just this morning, he saw I was about to blow my fuse and he took me out to the mulberry tree in the palace gardens. Patrick’s thinking spot. It’s the only part of my home where I feel like I can truly breathe.”

Her words had dropped to a whisper, as if she’d forgotten Sylvie was there; but her eyes focused again. “When I met him, it was like something out of someone else’s life. Some people couldn’t understand it. They don’t see him. I saw him,” she said simply. “And he saw me. The way I felt, I’ve never experienced anything like it. When I was growing up, I didn’t have . . . Daddy and my mother . . .” Rosie trailed away circumspectly on that point.

The body language between the Duke and Duchess of Albany did not speak of an immensity of love. In every photo, every video clip, it resonated with total indifference. It was fairly common knowledge that the duke spent more time with his horses than with his wife.

“It was a total game changer for me. But it isn’t easy for him.” Her voice went through a lightning hitch. She stopped. Cleared her throat twice. “There have been moments lately when he’s been preoccupied. Distant—”

“Your Highness.”

“Rosie.”The princess set her teeth.

“Rosie,” Sylvie said softly. “I’ve struggled to deal with the tiny notoriety of a television show. I can’t even begin to imagine the pressures on your relationship. But if I may say so, it’s very, very evident how you feel about each other. It’s a privilege to be involved even this far with your wedding, for that reason alone.” In this instant, she was talking only to a very stressed, not particularly happy woman. “I truly don’t think you need to doubt that Johnny is where he wants to be. I expect it’s where he needs to be.”

Rosie’s jaw worked. “But is it fair to him?” In anyone else, that might have been a passionate outburst, yet the very soberness of the princess’s response was all the more powerful. “Is it fair to him?” she repeated, and that bleakness was back in her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve seen the press lately. I’ve had it since the day I was born, and I’ll be dogged by it until I die. But Johnny—he doesn’t have to live like this. He doesn’t deserve any of it. He’s enduring it because of me. For me. I love him,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I love him more than anything. So much more than myself. And yet I’m pulling him into a way of life that’s going to make him miserable.”

“Rosie—”

“It happened to Patrick.” Suddenly, there were tears in Rosie’s eyes. “It happened to Patrick, years ago. He loved someone desperately. But she’d seen how his previous girlfriends had been treated. She knew what her life would become, the moment they went public. And in the end, it wasn’t a path she could walk.”

Sylvie reached out and took her hand, and Rosie gripped on to her very tightly.

“He loved her all his life,” she said, rubbing her back of her free hand under her wet lashes. “There was never anyone else, ever again. He—he mourned her, all his life.” She turned a stark look on Sylvie. “But he never blamed her for the decision she made. He said . . . He said, so simply, ‘She was the light. She was everything that was beautiful and kind, and she would have struggled every day, for the rest of her life. I would have caged a bird that was always meant to soar. I had to let her go.’ I’ve never forgotten the way he said it.” Another tear slipped down her cheek. “I think his spirit—the Patrick he would have been then—went with her and never returned. He was the light in my life, until I met Johnny, but he carried his sadness with him.”

She looked down at their joined hands, and Sylvie had a suspicion that very few people had ever reached out and held on to Rosie. “In the last days before he died, he wrote a final piece of music. I have it in my dressing table. I’ve never told anyone else about it. I’m not musical, so I’ve never heard it played.” A faint smile that spoke more of grief than pleasure; and not an old grief. Sylvie heard in the princess’s tone anticipated grief, and she tightened her grip. “I suspect it would make me cry, though. And the laundry is probably already wondering why I’m going through so many hankies.” She lifted her gaze back to Sylvie’s. “He wrote it for her. It’s called—”

Even later, Sylvie wasn’t sure exactly why she was so certain in that moment, as she saw in her mind that small glass globe and the simple inscription that encompassed—everything. “Jessie.”

If nothing else, it shocked Rosie out of the dark spiral that obviously had icy fingers on her, pulling her down. Sylvie knew what it was like, those moments when it felt as if you were drowning in the absence of light.

The princess stared at her, lips parted. There was a dead silence, before she said, “As far as I know, there isn’t another person living who knows about Jessie. Either you found something at Abbey Hall, or you’re way more qualified than I thought to spend your nights hovering over a cauldron.”

Sylvie reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Bringing up the photos she’d taken in the archives, she passed it across to Rosie, who looked down at the inscription on the glass globe.

Immediately, a new sheen appeared in her blue eyes. She flipped to the envelope with its intimate little sketches, zooming in, tracing her fingertip over Patrick’s handwriting. “Jessica Maple-Moore. I never knew her full name. Patrick only ever called her Jessie. And he was typically circumspect about any private details.”

Sylvie waited, watching Rosie’s face as she turned to the last image. The other woman went very still as she looked down at the photograph of her uncle and Jessie on the steps at Primrose Cottage. The pure love and absolute happiness in both of their faces.

After a full minute in which they sat in silence, Sylvie asked quietly, “The originals are at Abbey Hall and I think they’ll be returned to you, but in the meantime, do you want me to send you that photo?”

Rosie nodded wordlessly. She finally looked up. Her eyes were drenched, and there was a deeply sad twist to her mouth, but she was smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, through her tears. “I’ve never seen him like that. That light in him—he brought so much happiness to so many lives, I’m so glad to know that at least for a short time, he knew that sort of joy.”

And then her face crumpled, and Sylvie leaned forward to put her arms around her.

Eventually, Rosie lifted her wet face from Sylvie’s shoulder and took a deep breath, swiping at her cheeks. She exhaled heavily. “I have to go out there and be Princess Rose. Quick, tell me something lighter. A joke. Ask the most inane question you can think of. Something.”

Because Sylvie’s brain was frequently a complete twat, what popped into her head then was a limerick she’d heard at her local pub. It involved both Rosie’s grandfather and the Archbishop of Canterbury’s penis, and might as well be subtitled “How to Hand Dominic This Entire Contract in One Smutty Poem.”

In lieu of that option, she went with Thought B. “Our initial meeting was understandably kept well under wraps. And very separate.”

She emphasized the last word.

Rosie had pulled out a hand mirror and was dabbing face powder under her reddened eyes. “As you noted, my schedule is busy. This was more time-efficient.” Despite her residual sniffles, her voice was back to very calm Trained Royal. She looked straight at Sylvie—then, fleetingly, her gaze flicked over to the adjoining door, where the others had gone. “And now, somehow I don’t think you mind having to share the space.”

Pollyanna couldn’t have presented a more innocent front.

Even the busy, beleaguered, worried princess appeared to have noticed Sylvie’s increasing desire to climb Dominic like a fireman’s pole.

Marvelous.

Before she left the little meeting room to rejoin Dominic and Pet, Sylvie hesitated with her hand on the door and looked back at Rosie. “Rosie. It’s going to be okay.”

Rosie had fully adorned her armor now. She nodded slightly, her chin held high, eyes very straight.

But in their depths, buried beneath protocol and pride, remained something small and scared.

As Sylvie walked with the De Veres back out into the wind-tossed rain, Dominic looked at her with a frown. “Everything all right?”

She turned and looked up at the pretty stone building, the tinted windows, the guards at the door. “I hope so.”